


Mine First

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Brotherly Love, Epilepsy, Focal Seizure, Gen, Growing Up, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Family, Hurt/Comfort, JME, Janz Syndrome, Jealousy, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Partial Seizure, Seizure, Sherlock feels left out, Sibling Rivalry, absence seizure, fraternal love, fraternal relationship, h/c, petit mal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft presents a girl to his family and Sherlock's mind-missiles set to destroy. But Mycroft's annoyance with Sherlock can't be upheld, no matter how much of a brat his brother insists on being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine First

Sherlock didn’t imagine he’d ever see the day when Mycroft would admit to base feelings and present the family with his chosen beau, but it arrived. Oddly, _her_ name was Michelle and she was singularly the most boring, plain and fat woman Sherlock had ever laid his eyes on. He failed to see his brother’s attraction to her and then he considered that that _was_ the attraction. A more odd and convincing beard one could not wish for. Sherlock knew it, but he doubted his parents did as they cooed over Michelle at the low-lit table in the centre of a bustling Soho restaurant. 

“Tell me about your work, Michelle dear. Mycroft tells me you work at the same office as he does?” Violet said with a bright smile for the young girl. 

“Yes,” Michelle said softly, in a voice that was even more dreary than her flat hair. “I work in bookkeeping.” 

“Bookkeeping, how exciting.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for his glass of red wine on the table before him. Beneath the table, Mycroft’s foot collided with his chin and Sherlock grimaced at him. Despite being twenty-three and almost thirty, the boys behaved like children a good twenty years their junior. 

“Boys.” Siger warned in a low tone.

“Should you even be drinking that?” Mycroft leaned over the table, nodding at the glass in Sherlock’s hand. “That’s four, now.” 

“Should you be eating all that bread?” Sherlock replied. “That waistcoat looks a little snug.” 

“Child.” Mycroft sat back. 

“Bulimic.” Sherlock retorted, bringing the glass to his lips. 

“Boys!” Siger’s tone rose. “Can we not do this now? What’s gotten into your two?” Mycroft adjusted his position and turned his head to look at Michelle as she and Violet talked. Siger leaned closer to Sherlock on his right and fixed him with a serious stare. “I would have thought you of all people would be pleased to see Mike settling down.” 

“This isn’t settling down,” Sherlock whispered with a sarcastic smile, “It’s just plain settling.” Siger smiled despite his disliking for their bickering and shook his head in his mild amusement.

“Michelle, dear, are you local to the area?” Violet asked, folding her knife and fork down on her plate. 

“No,” Michelle responded and pushed her glasses up her narrow nose. “Weston-Super-Mare.” She said as a statement. “Though my father was originally from Haringey.”

“Not a social worker, was he?” Sherlock said, frowning, and the glare he received from Mycroft made the dying comment worth it. 

“No, he was a postman.” Michelle frowned. 

Sherlock flicked his wrist, “Oh, right.” He smiled falsely at her. “So, Haringey...” He urged her to continue. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft growled across the table. 

“It was a legitimate question.” Sherlock defended himself but couldn’t hold back his laugh at knowing he was truly bothering his brother. “Haringey...recent events…” he shrugged. 

Mycroft pursed his lips. “You’re an idiot. Behave!”

“You behave!” Sherlock laughed into his drink. “That’s some beard.” 

“Grow up, Sherlock.” Mycroft snapped in a low tone, booting his brother again beneath the table. 

Siger placed his hand on Sherlock’s forearm and drew his son’s attention solely onto him. “That’s over the top.” He said carefully. 

“It’s harmless,” Sherlock flattened his mouth into a thin line. 

“No, it’s cruel.” Siger said, his voice as delicately smooth as always. “You two are all you have in the end, son. You really should try not to be so unnecessarily rude to one another.” Sherlock could see his father was serious and nodded at him, if only to allow him to settle. “One day, son, you won’t have your mother and I here to act as buffers in the centre. This harmless silliness can quickly become something more painful. You need one another, you should always try to make sure the relationship you and Mycroft have remains a solid one.” Sherlock could see the emotion on his father’s face and knew that he genuinely meant his words. “Mikey’s brought a girl who is clearly nervous here tonight, so you should really be a little more gracious.”

Despite his age, Sherlock felt like a scorned child and knew, deep down, he deserved it. He glanced across the table at his brother, who was listening - he knew - but mixed in a conversation, of sorts, between Michelle and their mother. 

Siger would have continued had it not been for the fluttering of Sherlock’s eyes and mid-distance stare. He patted his hand where it rested on Sherlock’s arm before he drew back his hand. He counted, but only roughly, and marked the seizure as spanning a thirty-second stretch, but he was sure it had dipped out somewhere about ten seconds before recapturing Sherlock’s form and holding him still again. Sherlock’s absences had lessened in the more recent visits and he was a little surprised to see them resurfacing and with such intensity. He kept watching Sherlock’s face for signs of re-entry into the room but failed to catch it. When Mycroft’s voice intruded his focus, he realised his eldest son had been watching too. 

“He must have had four in a row.” Mycroft whispered over the table. “Dad, look…” he nodded, his eyes fixed on Sherlock right hand as it began it’s slow curl into a contraction in at his side. 

“It’s generalising?” Siger glanced at Mycroft quickly before looking back at Sherlock. 

Mycroft watched his brother cautiously. “I don’t know.” 

Mid-way through the myoclonic cluster, Sherlock’s consciousness seemed to be restored and he arched awkwardly against his chair and the contractions of his right side. Tonguing the outside of his lower lip, he grimaced as his right arm continued to twist in at his side, causing muscle aches and an anxiety to build up inside of him. 

“You’re okay, son.” Siger said, nodding firmly. “Not to worry.” 

Sherlock looked at him, confusion on his face, “I feel funny.” 

Mycroft eased his chair back from the table, “You want to go outside?” He asked, prepared to stand up. But Sherlock shook his head quickly, lips pursed as his arm began to slowly relax. 

“Is he alright?” Michelle asked, draw to the seemingly interesting conversation at the other side of the table. “Sorry, Mike, I didn’t know your brother was disabled, he seemed normal before.” She put her hand to her mouth. “What is it? Autism, or something? A cousin of mine has autism and they randomly shout and throw tantrums in public…” 

“Oh, stop talking.” Mycroft turned his head and snapped at her. 

Sherlock swallowed, and again, and then again, his throat feeling a little funny. “It felt like it was in my neck, and my face…” He looked at his dad, a little concerned. “It’s never felt like that before.” 

“Myoclonus can appear anywhere, Sherlock.” Mycroft reminded him. “You feel better?” 

Sherlock nodded his head, “Just a bit...strange.” 

“Do you want to leave?” Siger offered as Violet watched awkwardly at the end of the table. 

Sherlock shook his head quickly, “No, we’re having dinner.” He said bluntly. “I’m not leaving because my head won’t behave.” He sat straight in the chair and pushed his plate away from in front of him. “I’m having too much fun.” He tilted his head as he looked at Michelle. 

 

 

The Holmes’ parted ways a little before nine pm; Mycroft left with Michelle and Sherlock was certain they wouldn’t see her again, and Violet and Siger took Sherlock back to their cottage with them. Violet left Siger and Sherlock in the lounge, with Siger stoking the fire to warm the place up, while she disappeared into the kitchen to fix them tea. Sherlock lounged across the large sofa, a gangly array of limbs and clearly exhausted. 

“Early night maybe, son?” Siger suggested, standing with his back to the fire and basked in the warmth. Sherlock nodded his head. 

“Yeah.” He scratched the side of his neck with his left hand. “Sorry, Mum.” Sherlock said, standing up from the sofa as Violet stepped into the lounge with a tray of mugs and a teapot. “I’m going to go to bed.” He leaned over the table to kiss her cheek. 

“Oh,” Violet raised her brows, a little sorry he wasn’t joining them. “Okay, my darling,” She smiled and hugged him with stretched arms. “Goodnight, love.” 

“Night son,” Siger called, as Sherlock disappeared into the hallway and took the stairs to his childhood room two at a time.

“Is he okay?” Violet asked, pouring tea for herself and her husband. As she handed the cup and saucer to Siger, he nodded at her. 

“He’s alright, love. Probably just tired.” He winked at her quickly and she smiled, reassured. She took her own tea around with her and sat on the sofa where Sherlock had previously sat and drew her legs up beside her. “So Michelle seems lovely.” Siger said, sitting back. 

“Oh don’t be daft.” Violet sighed, “She’s as boring as a cardboard box and clearly has no intellectual value for Mikey, and if you think I could stick for the way she talked about Sherlock.... No - it’ll be short lived, thank goodness. That one as a daughter-in-law would be insufferable.” Siger laughed, seeing exactly where Sherlock got his streaks from.

**Author's Note:**

> RE: Haringey/Social Work reference.  
> I'm working with the idea that Sherlock is an 80s baby - I think it's 81/82 for the BBC canon, right?   
> The reference to Haringey and 'social workers' is a reference that, so long as I've worked my timeline out right, will coincide with the failings of social workers in the Haringey area to protect a young girl who was subject to horrific torture. The use of this in this story is not to belittle the happenings but to a) reference a timeline, as I said, and b) to make Sherlock look like the dickhead he's attempting to be.


End file.
